


I know how you feel

by LunaStorm



Series: A Word A Day [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor finds himself accidentally landing in Storybrooke at random intervals.<br/>The oddest thing is that his companions always seem to love it.<br/>Why, he could not fathom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Random

The Doctor finds himself accidentally landing in Storybrooke at random intervals.

Sometimes it's a few centuries before he gets there again, sometimes just a couple of years; never deliberately, however. He just can't figure out how to get there on purpose – not that he really wants to, mind. There's something just slightly _wrong_ with the town, that he can never quite put his finger on.

Back when he was younger, he positively hated it because for a portion of its existence, Time was _frozen_ there.

It was an absolutely horrid sensation. Unnatural. Positively distasteful. Potentially catastrophic, too – but since the parenthesis was only 28 years long (relatively speaking) and appeared to have resolved itself without any outside intervention, he accepted to leave it well enough alone.

Eventually.

It still gives him the creeps whenever he doesn't land outside of those frozen years.

Then there's the fact that it keeps blinking in and out of existence randomly.

Not as interesting an occurrence as it sounds – mostly, it's irritating. In a getting-a-headache-when-you-think-of-it way. Besides, it's quite stable on the whole. No point wasting energies fretting over it; and who could blame him if he's disinclined to investigate further? Really, the place is dull. As if all joy has been leached from it, but not replaced by the usual anger or hatred or whatnot. Just boredom. Especially during the frozen years.

It becomes marginally better when time resumes, but not by much.

For all that he can never figure out the place, however, he keeps finding himself there without rhyme or reason.

He can never understand why the Tardis would take him there. Nothing ever seems to happen – no alien invasions (he'd checked, repeatedly), no nefarious plots (regardless of that smart kid's claims that his mother is an Evil Queen), not even a sad lack of bananas that he would have to remedy (Granny's banana pancakes are simply divine, the one bright point of the boring, boring town).

The oddest thing is that his companions always seems to _love_ it.

Why, he could not fathom.

“It felt good,” most of them say afterwards (although _what_ could be good in such a dull place, the Time Lord couldn't begin to guess).

The Doctor has learned to take it in stride.

After all, the day every secret of the Universe is revealed to him, he would just have to give up entirely!

(Oh, who is he kidding? The mystery eats at him and will continue to do so until he gets to the bottom of it.)

His personal (very low) opinion of the odd town doesn't seem to matter any, in any case. The Tardis keeps bringing him there whenever it pleases her – and really, isn't that just typical?


	2. Coffee

“Here,” says Donna, holding out a cardboard mug of steaming coffee from Granny's Diner.

The tall, thin girl who's leaning against the diner's green metal fence, looking so terribly dejected, has caught her attention for some reason and this is a good way to break the ice, she feels.

“You look like you need it,” she says kindly to the startled girl.

She's pretty, nay, beautiful; she has long dark hair lighted by burgundy locks falling in a straight cascade around her lovely face and gorgeous dark eyes, currently full of confusion and upset, but also deep kindness.

Her make-up is heavier and her trousers much tighter than Donna can approve of and she has to fight the impulse to reach under the girl's leather jacket and grab her light sweatshirt to pull it up so that it hangs properly from both her shoulders, or at least enough that it'll cover her red bra; but Donna knows the provocative outfit is just a way to cry out to the world and probably a reaction to the no-doubt disapproving adults in her life more than anything.

Was Donna any different at that age?

Sure she'd never picked such appalling clothes, but how often had she used her sharp tongue to lash out in preventive self-defence? Or clung to her stubbornness even when it became detrimental to her own well-being, all in a reaction to her mother's wearying put-downs and tepid support of her life choices?

The girl's outfit is just her way to shout at the world because she thinks no one's listening.

Her cute red beanie, striped scarf and many necklaces soften her look and seem to convey the inner, gentle strength she is so obviously unaware of having.

“Thanks,” the girl says softly, looking down at the unexpected gift.

Donna smiles warmly and takes her place leaning against the railing beside the girl. She's got time anyway – Lord only knows where the Doctor has disappeared to. He wasn't thrilled to be here, wherever 'here' is. She might as well do a good deed while she waits for the pouting Time Lord to reappear.

She smiles in her coffee when this thought strikes her. She really has changed; in the past, she was often selfish, carelessly self-centred, but travelling with the Doctor she finds herself looking out for others, helping where she might not have before.

All thanks to the mad Martian (although he's not really from Mars, she knows) who's shown her who she can be – no, who she _is_ : somehow, he's brought out a brighter, more compassionate, altogether _better_ Donna that was hiding underneath her brash attitude and buried insecurities.

Maybe she can do the same for this beautiful, lost girl?

“I'm Donna,” she says lightly while sipping her coffee.

“Ruby. Ruby Lucas,” the girl answers, then sighs morosely into her untouched coffee.

Donna's eye is caught by a ring with a wolf's head on it glinting on her finger. For some reason, it strikes her as completely out of place and perfectly right at the same time.

Unable to explain the odd thought, she shakes it away.

“If you don't like coffee, it's alright, you know. You just looked a bit lost and--”

“Oh, no, no, this is-- it's lovely, really. Thank you.” Ruby almost falls over herself to reassure the stranger that the random kindness is appreciated. “It's just... this mug. I, well. I used to be a waitress. Here, actually,” she admits with a small gesture towards the diner behind them.

“Used to?” asks Donna leadingly.

Ruby sighs again, falling back against the railing. “I had a fight with Granny. Quit my job.” She smiles wanly. “I wanted to leave town. I've wanted it for so long... I’ve never even been out of Storybrooke! Granny's ill, you see, and so... and of course I had to stay, but I just... I'm... I should be out there having adventures!” she bursts out.

Donna smiles at the rebellious young woman, hearing echoes of her own determination to enjoy Egypt.

_So, what will you do with yourself now?_

_I don't know. Travel. See a bit more of planet Earth. Walk in the dust. Just go out there and do something._

“I get you,” she murmurs to the girl. “I totally get you.”

“So I quit,” goes on Ruby, not even knowing why she's trusting this unknown woman with a warm smile so easily. “And, I guess it worked out, sort of. I'm now Emma's assistant – she's the Sheriff,” she quickly explains at Donna's frown of confusion.

“Oh, but that's brilliant!” exclaims the red-head.

“Except I can’t do anything,” replies Ruby dejectedly. “Well, except fetching lunch, I suppose.” She shows a bag of take-away. “Granny's right, I'm just doing what I've always done. And if Emma wants me to do more... I'm going to screw it up, I just know it. I mean, I'll screw it up with flair, but...”

“Oh, God, stop right there,” says Donna forcefully. “You're wrong, do you hear me?”

She shakes her head, trying to order her thoughts. Appalling taste in clothes aside, this girl could be her before her Spaceman showed her the universe: special in her own unique way – brilliant, as the Doctor would say – but with absolutely no self-confidence.

She turns to look Ruby straight in the eyes: “I know how you feel, really, I do. I mean, I've been a temp all my life: not much to be proud of, huh? I used to think I was nothing special. That when you get right down to it... well, what have I ever done? Really? I'm not powerful. I'm not connected. I'm not that clever. I'm... nothing. Just one of a million unimportant people on this planet. I used to think I just wasn't good enough and never would be – but here's the thing: it's not true.”

Ruby is, by now, staring at her with wide eyes.

“And it isn't true for you either. I've got this friend, see, and he's taught me that there's no such thing as an unimportant person. You just don't realize what you're capable of, Ruby, that's all. So here's what we'll do. I'm going to _tell_ you.”

She grabs the girl gently by the shoulders and says, with strength and conviction: “Ruby Lucas? You are brilliant. And you can do anything you want to. So go out there and do it!”

She ends it in a tone that's once again brash and saucy and _her,_ giving Ruby's shoulder a light push.

A hesitant but genuine smile is her reward.

Turning her head a little, she catches sight of the Doctor striding down the street, coat flying behind him and a cloud of ill-humour wrapped around him.

“I've got to go,” Donna says and squeezes Ruby's shoulder as she pushes herself away from the railing.

The young woman gulps, then smiles tremulously. “Thanks. I mean, I... well. I don't even really know who you are, but... thanks. I won't forget you.”

Donna smiles warmly back: “Good luck. And-- just be magnificent.”


	3. Stranger

As bars go, The Rabbit Hole isn't bad at all. A bit tacky in its décor, maybe, but the smell of smoke is less annoying than Amy had feared and she is totally in the mood for alcohol – just like every other patron scattered about.

Rory and the Doctor are making fools of themselves at the pool table. She wonders how her husband manages to play. Amy can only sit at a corner of the bar, numb.

Her sorrow weighs her down like an actual lead cape.

Never in a million years would she expect to find a kindred spirit in such a place: for who could possibly understand her – the fierce grief that washes through her every time she lets herself think of her daughter?

No, she is alone – and quite determined to interact with no-one and nothing but her glass.

And yet... and yet.

The gentle woman who sits beside her has such a kind face, and such a sad smile, and such an uncertain demeanour, that before she knows it, Amy is leaning forward and she and Mary Margaret, for that is her name, are sharing their scotch and lending each other a comforting ear.

Their friendship starts with Amy admitting they're strangers, travellers passing by, which apparently is unheard of in Storybrooke; this somehow morphs into poor Mary Margaret blurting out her story – because everybody in town already knows it, and she can't talk to anyone, what would be the point, but God, she needs to talk about it and Amy is kind and _there_ and _new_.

And what a story it is: an absurd tale of curses and witches and True Love and sacrifice, of giving up a daughter and only meeting her again as an adult.

As unbelievable as it all sounds, Amy has heard weirder stuff during her travels, and her own story is just as incredible, just as painful – besides, playing with Time always makes things complicated, she should know that. And the way Mary Margaret's face crumbles gives credence to her pain in a way that resonates with Amy deeply.

“The worst thing is, we were actually friends, you know. Before I knew who Emma is, I mean. And I just... I'm her mother. I should-- I'm her _mother_ , I should know how to-- I don't know. Comfort her, guide her. But she's an adult and she doesn't need me and I... I can't lose her, not again, I won't! I-- I just don't know how to connect to her...”

Amy gasps in pained wonder.

It is agonizing and liberating at once, how much she _understands_ this stranger in a bar, how much they share.

Before she knows it – before she can stop herself – her own story is tumbling out of her.

All of it – her odd pregnancy, Madame Kovarian and her eyepatch, the absurd experience of being replaced by a ganger linked to her mind, her horrifying labour, the Battle of Demons Run, the terrifying shock of seeing what she thought was her baby explode into liquid Flesh, River telling them her real identity.

“...and there she was, this amazing woman, strong, confident, everything I ever wished my daughter to be, but I haven't been a part of it, won't see any of it...”

She gesture helplessly to herself: “My body knows it just gave birth. But the baby this milk is meant for is a grown woman, who doesn't need me. And probably hates me. I mean, why wouldn't she? I failed her so badly... How can she possibly forgive me?...”

Mary Margaret's hand clutched hers, tightly, and their eyes meet in shared grief: “I know exactly how you feel.”


	4. Well

“So.” Rory nods slowly, while sharing a beer with the blond man he's just met.

Both of them know that they don't have a choice about getting along, not really: their wives clearly adore each other. Still, it would be good to be able to form a friendship of their own; otherwise things might get awkward.

They're both busy processing what their respective wives have explained, however, and the silence over their drinks is more thoughtful than inconvenient, for now.

The ladies in question are  talking with passion at a nearby table, thick as thieves and clutching each other like lifelines and Rory smiles a little, pained, hoping this new friend might be good for his beloved Amy. The loss of their adored baby is a knife constantly twisting inside him, a wound that he knows will never heal, and his wife's wild grief only adds to his own; but maybe they can find some comfort here and there. 

Without meaning to, he catches a similar look of love and sorrow on the blond man's face and he relaxes a little. Perhaps he's found a kindred spirit too, like Amy obviously has.

He clinks his glass gently on the table.

“Prince Charming, huh?” he asks, unable to stifle the little flame of giddy incredulity that dances in his heart every time he meets something improbably fabulous in his travels.

David draws a long sip of his own beer. “I'm not mad,” he says carefully.

“Oh, no, I believe you,” assures Rory. “I've heard stranger tales, anyway.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I've _lived_ a stranger tale.”

David's eyebrows rise in sceptical intrigue: “Oh? Do tell.”

And Rory does.

By the time their second beer arrives, he's gained steam and everything he never told Amy about the long centuries as the Pandorica's Guardian is spilling out.

“It's just... I don't know, it's like there's two of me, you know? I'm the quiet nurse from Leadworth who's content with a tranquil life where nothing ever happens, so long as Amy's in it, of course, and I _like_ being Rory-the-Nurse, Rory-the-Nurse is a good man. I like helping people in small ways and all. Except... except there's this, this part of me, deep inside, that's really Rory-the-Last-Centurion, and I'm damn proud of it, too. I am!” he says, with a slight surprise in his tone, because he hadn't so far realized this simple truth.

David nods vigorously:  “I know exactly how you feel. And you know what? We  _are_ both. I would never give up being Charming just to be David, but I wouldn't make the other trade either. David and the Prince, I am both. Just like you. Rory and the Centurion.”

He speaks with conviction and Rory smiles more openly. “Right,” he agrees, oddly soothed by the other's honest charm.

Charming smiles back and the following silence becomes companionable, content. They listen to the Rabbit Hole's music selection and their wives' murmured chatter.

It takes another beer before Rory blurts out, somewhat embarrassed: “Also...  I kind of miss the swordwork.”

“Tell me about it!” agrees Prince Charming with feeling. 

Then he ponders for a long moment. “Say... there's this place near the Wishing Well , sort of sheltered, but spacious... I go there at times to... er...” he trails off, looking speculatively at Rory. 

And he smiles: “Wanna spar?”


	5. Boyfriend

“Boyfriend troubles?” 

The beautiful brunette sitting in the diner, playing absently with an empty cup, startles and turns gorgeous blue eyes on her, very obviously trying to place her and perhaps a bit embarrassed at being unable to. She opens her mouth with hesitation, but doesn't really voice her perplexity.

Rose smiles warmly at her, taking in her slightly lost air, and slips into the seat opposite her.

“How did you know?” asks the young woman curiously.

“You have that look.” Rose shrugs and smiles again. “I'm not from around here and won't stay long, I don't think, so if you want to get it all off your chest, I'm willing to be your shoulder-to-cry-on.”

At the other's surprise, she widens her smile, gently pushing one of the two mugs she's brought over towards the blue-eyed beauty. “I'm told I'm a good listener. And sometimes confiding in a stranger is just what you need... Plus, I have chocolate!”

The young woman snorts and smiles back. “Is that some sort of requirement for the shoulder-to-cry-on job?” she teases.

“Oh, absolutely!” says Rose with conviction. “A girl needs chocolate on a regular basis, of course, but boyfriend troubles make it absolutely indispensable! A good shoulder-to-cry-on knows this very well.”

They chuckle together.

In serene silence, they sip their hot cocoa, feeling more at ease than either of them expected.

“I'm Rose,” she says after a while.

“Belle,” the other replies.

Then she fidgets a little, fiddling with the collar of her yellow summer dress, and says shyly: “Well, hum... I just... I have this... boyfriend, yeah. I guess.”

“Hu-huh,” nods Rose, attentive.

Belle sighs deeply.  “ Most people disapprove of us being together. My father... well. The less said the better, I fear.”

Rose grimaces, sympathetic: “What's the problem? Is he unemployed or something?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But... For one, he's so much older than me.”

Rose snorts loudly and waves the objection away:  “ Oh, that's not nearly as relevant as they'd want you to think,” she says airily. “Trust me, I've got this friend. And there's one hell of an age gap between us, and I assure you, it matters not one whit.”

Belle smiles, but without strength: “He's got a... reputation.” But she doesn't elaborate.

Rose raises her eyebrows: “...For being what? A grouch? A lazy bum? A lecher?”

Belle giggles but then sighs: “For being evil.”

Rose blinks. That's kind of unexpected. “Is he?” she asks cautiously.

“No!” is the vehement reply. “Well, maybe. He-- was.” She shakes her head in frustration: “He's powerful. So he's feared. People... they called him a monster, and I guess he became one. But that doesn't mean...” she trails off, helpless. 

Rose regards her carefully, sipping the last of her cocoa.

Belle sighs again, dejectedly:  “ It's complicated.”

“It always is,” says Rose very gently. Then she hesitates, looking thoughtfully at the other woman, and finally ventures: “I'm going to guess, here. This boyfriend of yours... he's done terrible things in his past, yeah? And bears the weight of it everyday, but deep down he's a good man? And it shows more easily if you're around to-- remind him of it, so to speak?”

Belle's eyes widen: “Yes! That's it exactly!”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

After a moment, Belle slumps in her seat: “It's just... it would be easier, you know, if someone else could see... Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, if being with him is good for me or...”

Rose sighs and asks what she thinks is the only important question:  “ Do you love him?”

“Yes,” whispers Belle and then, quite unexpectedly, she bursts out in a loud rant: “Yes, I do, and that is precisely the problem! I love him, and he loves me, I know he does, but would it kill him to admit it? To include me, some of the time? He's got so many secrets and... and he's too much of a coward to be honest with me!”

Rose snorts again and clinks her mug to Belle's: “Welcome to the club, girl.” There is a mixture of frustration and fondness in her tone as she declares: “I know exactly how you feel.”


	6. Puppet

Mickey is stomping aimlessly in the woods, hopelessly lost (not that he'll ever admit it) and grumbling half-heartedly against all the damn trees and ambushing rocks and stupid chirping birds.

Mickey's a city boy, and proud of it. Woods are not his cup of tea. He shouldn't have left the town, no matter that stalking off dramatically and leaving a gaping Doctor behind had felt good. Now he's stuck in this place with too much green stuff and a ground that _squelches_.

He stops and blinks suddenly, stirrings of hope in his chest, when he catches sight of an old trailer.

It's battered and dirty and rusty in places, but to his eyes, it is a sign of civilization! Surely someone living in the woods like this can show him the way back to that town?

He hurries to bang on the trailer's door, suddenly desperate to get back to the Tardis as quickly as possible. He wouldn't put it past the Doctor to 'forget' him, after all – even if Rose wouldn't let him. Probably.

The nervousness aroused by the thought is enough that when no one answers him, he forces his way in, shouldering the battered door with a grunt - just in case whoever's there is sleeping, or in the bathroom, or something, he tells himself.

The inside is nothing strange, standard furniture in fake wood, every square inch turned into a cupboard or a chest or a closet, anonymous drapes and low-quality upholstery.

All perfectly normal... except for the wooden man glaring at him.

“Woah!” Mickey stumbles back in shock.

The man – and he is most certainly a man, alive and sentient, for all that he's also obviously made of wood – is handsome, with the bluest eyes and regular features; but there is no denying that every inch of his body is made of wood, the chestnut beard and moustache and hair painted on immobile not-muscles.

Right, Mickey tells himself, aliens, remember aliens are real and strange and maybe a wooden man is normal... but still...

“You... you're wood!” he cries rudely, unable to stop himself.

The glare shifts to sadness and shame, but the blue eyes maintain a veil of annoyance.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the strange man demands in a low, sad voice.

But Mickey is still stuck on the way he looks and moves – all jerky and stiff as if he was a puppet with not enough joints. “What are you, Pinocchio?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes.”

“...What – really?”

Mickey is seriously taken aback, but the other offers no answer.

“O-kay... well... right. Cool.”

“No. It's really not,” retorts Pinocchio.

“Right. Sorry. Guess not.” Mickey fidgets in embarrassment, not really sure what to do with his hands. “Ah. Hum... So what are you doing hiding out in the woods anyway?”

“I believe I asked you the same,” says the other starchily.

Mickey grimaces. “Got lost. Was hoping you could show me the way back to town...?”

The wooden man turns away laboriously. “I can't go back. I've made too many mistakes.”

When Mickey goes to protest, he adds: “Don't worry. These woods aren't dangerous... Just keep moving around and you'll be found. Your friends will come for you.”

“Wish I could be so sure,” grumbles Mickey. “I'm not exactly high on their priority list. Good old Mickey, nice to have around, sure, but not too badly missed if he's not. To think Rose and I used to be... ah, whatever!”

He lets himself collapse on the tiny couch, ignoring Pinocchio's irritated glare, and goes on: “I thought I was important to them... well, maybe not important _important_ , but, you know, useful. I thought I had a role! Their man in Havana. Their technical support! But it turns out... I'm just the tin dog,” he finishes with a disgusted sigh.

The wooden man sits carefully beside him.

“Not sure what a tin dog is, but... I know how you feel,” he suspires. “It's like with me and Emma. She is... I was supposed to take care of her. Instead, I abandoned her. But I told myself it was alright, that I would get back to her when the time was right, help her along, keep her safe - that I still had a role in her life, an important one, but... I don't. She didn't need me in the end. Somehow, I missed my chance. And the worst thing is, it was my own cowardice that brought me to this point.”

Mickey bumps a wooden shoulder with his own amicably: “Hey, I know how you feel. Rose and me? It's my own fault we didn't go anywhere, not that I like to admit it. Her new bloke, he invited me along from the start – well, almost. First time I said no. I was scared. Stayed back while she went on to be fantastic, until she didn't need me anymore. But look at me now! I'm changing. I'm getting better, smarter, braver. I'm travelling the stars... meeting all sorts – even Pinocchio!” he jokes.

His words are no jest, though. What he's voicing is a resolution that has been simmering within him ever since meeting Sarah Jane, no, before that even; now it's bubbling to the surface and Mickey feels giddy and surprised and scared and determined all at once. He's wished it for a while now, but suddenly it feels possible, it feels real. This isn't just words: this is _what he'll do_.

He probably owes the wooden bloke a big thank you for making him say it all out loud.

The other doesn't seem to grasp the importance of the momentous declaration however. He looks at Mickey sadly: “It's a nice thought, but not very realistic. People don't really change, I'm afraid. I might wish to make amends for all the bad things I've done, but redemption doesn't come as easily as that. Look at me, I'm living proof. If my father saw me in this state...”

“Nah. You got it wrong, mate. So I screwed up one chance, right? Doesn't mean it's all over. I mean, I could have stayed on the Estate and moaned and bitched about it for the rest of my life. Instead, here I am. And I'll prove them I'm better. I'm... ok, so I'm still the tin dog. But not for long! I won't be. You'll see. I'll show them – everybody – and I'll show myself. Sure I've lost Rose... even a blind fool could tell that. But it doesn't signify. I'm gonna change my role and become a hero. A better man. Just you wait and see.” The conviction in Mickey's voice is strengthening with every word. “You can do it too.”

Pinocchio shakes his head: “There are things someone can't come back from.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” disagrees Mickey. “Whatever that alien says,” he adds in a grumble – but Pinocchio doesn't remark on the odd comment.

“Thing is, I did get a second chance,” he laments instead. “Became a real boy and all... And then I blew it.”

Mickey hesitates, because this is getting a little out of his comfort zone: “O-kay,” he tries, drawling a little. “Don't remember much of your story, never liked it much. Sorry,” he adds quickly. “How exactly did you screw up?”

“I told you. I was supposed to look after Emma. I was supposed to be... but I wasn't, that's the thing. I've lived a life of selfishness, cowardice, and dishonesty.”

Mickey shrugs. “Then stop.”

Pinocchio shakes his head awkwardly. “Too late. That's why I'm like this - a wood pile of failure. The Blue Fairy told me, long ago... 'always be brave, truthful and unselfish. So long as you do that, you will remain a real boy'. Too bad I didn't follow her instructions.”

“Well, that's just a load of tripe,” dismisses Mickey. “No one can be all that all the time. No-one human,” he clarifies, then adds: “No-one alien, either, take my word for it.”

“Alien?” Pinocchio can't exactly frown, but his voice conveys the expression very well.

“Never mind. The point is, that fairy gave you a shitty deal. And yeah, I get it that being wood is no fun, but that's what you are and you'll live with it, is my guess. Question is – what you gonna do about it?”

“Well, what do you suggest? You seem to have all the answers,” asks Pinocchio a trifle petulantly.

“Not hiding away in the woods might be a good start.”

“I can't go back to my father! He'll be disappointed – and--”

Mickey snorts and shoots the wooden man a glare of contempt.

“What?” Pinocchio asks, defensively.

Mickey hesitates, trying to find the right words. “I... I had this grandma. She raised me. If I could get her back. If I could--” Mickey takes a deep breath. “Your father is alive. You don't know how lucky you are for that. If my grandma was alive, I wouldn't care what she thought of me, I'd just... 'sides, she'd be proud no matter what, wouldn't she? 'Cause that's how real parents work. Or, grandparents,” he finishes lamely.

Seeing Pinocchio is unconvinced, he shoves his shoulder again: “Just bloody go back, Puppet. And hug him tight. That's my advice.”


	7. Evil

“Who the hell are you? I've never seen you before.”

The imperious voice pierces Clara's haze of numbness and despair. She is not particularly grateful: numb is better than in pain from grief. Anger is also a numbing option, however, so she swivels on the stool and musters a glare: “Do you claim to know everybody in this town?”

“I'm the mayor,” is the haughty response.

Clara scoffs. “Well, I'm just passing through.”

The elegant woman carries herself with such an air of authority that Clara feels small and scruffy just being in her presence; the deep black eyes are boring into her, suspicious and irritated and demanding compliance at once. If Clara didn't have experience withstanding the Doctor's stormy gaze, she might just cave.

As it is, she merely sniffs and returns her attention to the cup of tea she hasn't tasted. Even tea doesn't taste the same since-- since. She'd thought returning to the Doctor was a good idea, that it would fix everything, that... but... and what she did... 

She shudders. She isn't over _it_. Not by a long shot. Might never be. And the Doctor cannot help. And demanding it of him was an awful, awful thing.

Impatiently, the mayor pushes aside the stool beside her and crosses her arms; she clearly insists on getting her answers, much to Clara's irritation.

“Nobody passes through Storybrooke,” claims the woman authoritatively, as if it was a truth universally known and Clara just a silly child trying to lie her way out of trouble.

“Well, I do,” Clara retorts childishly and it's all she can do not to stick out her tongue. She feels silly and raggedy and she doesn't like this elegant woman one bit.

The discreet jewels and perfectly tailored suit, not to mention her stern beauty, strengthen the impression of power; Clara wouldn't be surprised to find out she's in control of everything in this town, down to the meanest detail. Scratch mayor: she has the bearing of a Queen.

She's also unused to being denied, obviously.

“Just tell me who you are!” she demands again, frustrated.

Clara doesn't usually have a problem with authority, but right now, she is so not in the mood. She slams down the cup she's just lifted, making the tea slosh and splatter, and rounds on her: “Lovely town and all, Madam Mayor, but I'd rather enjoy it on my own,” she says pointedly - and against her will, her voice breaks on the loneliness of those last words.

For a moment, she thinks the woman will hit her, or at least lash out verbally: she almost wishes it. However the regal mayor appears to catch something in Clara's expression – barely concealed grief, probably – and the expression in those demanding eyes becomes complex, sharp and surprised and calculating and sympathetic and a myriad other things, then softens all of a sudden, turning the already beautiful features into an outright stunning visage.

With a sigh and a commiserative look she relaxes, taking a seat next to Clara with the air of a lazy predator rather than a furious one on the prowl.

She signals the formidable old woman who runs the place and regards Clara thoughtfully. “You look like someone kicked your favourite puppy,” she proclaims with studied carelessness.

Stung, Clara retorts before thinking things through.

“My boyfriend died!” she hisses and through the wave of sorrow that threatens to choke her, she misses the flash of resigned acknowledgement in the other's eyes.

“He died and I betrayed my best friend to try and get him back,” says Clara. She is too abrupt, and probably shouldn't talk about this with a complete stranger, but she's past caring. She gulps forcibly. “I'm evil.”

The regal woman snorts.

It's echoed by the old woman who's handing them shots (in the middle of the afternoon!), which earns her a glare from the mayor, but then the elegant woman dismisses the bartender and focuses on Clara.

Without sugarcoating it, she says in precise, clipped tones: “I killed my own father to cast a curse that took away everybody's happy endings, just to try and stifle the pain and grief my beloved's death left in me. Trust me, girl, you're nowhere _near_ evil.”

Clara gapes unbecomingly.

The mayor has an arrogant, resolute countenance, filled with furious strength fuelled by desperation and headstrong pride that keeps her head held high, defying the world to judge her; but there is regret in her eyes, and understanding, and powerful buried grief.

That's what breaks Clara in the end.

“It's just... it hurts so much,” she says, and her voice breaks.

The mayor covers her hand with hers at once. “I know.”


End file.
